Here, Here I Quake
by bluekrishna
Summary: Posted to tumblr, this is a modern AU where Solas was once a bonafide rock god. Summary: Once there was a legendary band named Evanuris. They were that one band everyone loves. But then they vanished without a trace. A chance encounter in a shop leads to revelations, old and new. Meant to be silly, but is evolving into something really interesting. POV swaps back and forth each chp
1. Chapter 1

"Fen'harel."

It's his own fault, really.

Years of caution and tiptoeing through life in carefully crafted obscurity, and he throws it all away with a sharp turn of his head toward the sound of someone calling him by a name he's forsaken for decades.

The smell of incense and old vinyl permeates the shop into which he's drifted. Sudden awareness of his surroundings steals over him as he looks down into eyes the color of fresh spring leaves, framed by thick eyelashes and lines of blackest kohl.

His mouth dries in horror as he realizes his mistake. Blinking, he forces a word out past stiff lips, "Sorry?"

She blinks back, confused. Looking him up and down, taking in his humble, plain attire, she offers a crooked grin of apology. "No, I'm sorry. For a sec, I, um …. Anyway, it's not important. Are you finding everything alright?"

Then he sees the name-tag. She works here, this young lady who thought she misidentified him. Clearing his throat of the anxiety-inspired lump lodged there, he said, "I am." Then, confusion sparks through him as he clarifies, "I think."

"You think?" she echoes, with a widening of her smile. She taps the LP in his hands with one black-lacquered nail. "Classic. Are you a collector? Or just a fan?"

Attention drawn back to the garishly out of date cover art of the record he held, he ponders how it even made its way there for a moment. _How did I even get here? I was walking past and …._ A sour taste fills his mouth as he contemplates her question. "Neither. I'm … just looking."

"That's a shame. I love Evanuris." She winks at him and he notes for the first time her vallaslin. A dusting of shimmering black over one eye in the shape of Sylaise's twisting fire. "They're my jam."

A … fan. Fanatic. Zealot, for that more aptly described the frothing hordes under Evanuris's banner. He winces internally at the idea. So many elves of today taking on the markings without even realizing the extent of their meaning. Or the unworthiness of those they represent.

Then the heavy strains of music pouring out of the store's speakers reminds him of how he ended up here. It had drawn him in, beats and refrains as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, yet …. _And yet …._ He tilts his head and nods toward the closest speaker as he says, "Is that why it's playing?"

"Hmm. Possibly," she says, tone light and teasing. One of her hands comes up to twist at the fire-red curls at her shoulder, giving them a brief yank before throwing them back out of the way.

"But this is not the original recording. Someone has … resampled it." He put the comment out there as nonchalantly as he could, mustering the blankest expression forth to combat the roil of unease in his belly.

Her teeth, white and even, flash at him between plump lips painted dark, dark red. Almost black. "Ah, so you _are_ a fan."

He sighs and concedes, "Once, perhaps. I'm surprised someone as young as you even bothers with so old a band."

"As I said, I love them. They were revolutionary. In more ways than one. And then they just fell of the face of the Earth one day …. And anyway, well, you're right. This track's been … tampered with." She leans toward him with a conspiratorial smirk. "Some would call that … blasphemy."

From the playful and secretive glint in her eye, he draws a surprising conclusion. " _You_ resampled it?"

"I did. Don't get me wrong. I loved it how it was, but I always felt it lacked a certain …." She paused, hand twirling on the end of one slim bangle-bedecked wrist. "Something. Grit. Honesty."

He could hear it, the added drive embedded in the chorus, the plaintive wail beneath the bridge. Refreshing. Entrancing. It gives the whole song a new and mournful depth. Turning to look at the surprising girl before him, he smiles a genuine smile. "I like it."

She flushes, pink tinting her pale, freckled cheeks, and looks away. "Thanks."

"Are you a music major?" he asks, hoping it won't sound too intrusive.

Her laughter puts him at ease. "Look that young, do I? I suppose I should take that as a compliment. No. I never went to college. I _am_ a musician, though. Self-taught."

"Oh?"

"It's not that impressive. All these kids working around here are musicians. Kirkwall is the place to be, after all. And every single one is looking for that big break." She gives a wave to indicate the other shuffling youths, with their wild haircuts and exotic piercings, stocking and organizing records.

"Well, with talent like _that_ ," he says, indicating the song just now winding to conclusion. "You can't be that far from your big break."

With a shy, elated smile, she retorts, "Sweet talker. Hey, if you're interested, there's a show at the Hanged Man tomorrow night."

He shouldn't be, but he is. "Is your band playing?"

"Yeah, if you want to call it that. We're opening for the Grey Wardens."

Barely keeping the sneer off his face, he says, "Metalcore tripe."

Her brows climb with interest. "Oh, my. Are we a touch of a music snob?" Her open and engaging smile defuses any ill feeling that might engender within him.

"There are better ways of spending my time than listening to four minutes and thirty-eight seconds of pig noises." He sniffs and clasps hand over wrist behind his back, the vinyl record's edge tapping the bottom of his shoulderblades. Looking at her with a hint of worry, he says, "I suppose that might sound a tad offensive to you if your band is of the same bent-"

She waves the fumbling non-apology off with a chuckle. "No, no. We aren't, I mean, I certainly can't do the pig squeal, so it's, uh, safe, I guess?"

"You sing?" he asks, the idea pulling at him for some reason. He tries not to imagine her cradling a mic in her slim hands. What might she sound like on stage with her pleasant, liltingly smooth voice? Hard to envision, though temptation whispers that he need only show up to the aforementioned show to find out.

"I do," she says, with no false modesty. He takes a moment to appreciate it, head lifting, skin flushing at the back of his neck.

They stand there staring at one another for a long moment. Clearing his throat and looking away, he draws the LP in his hands up in front of his chest as a sort of shield and is mildly surprised that it works, sort of. He certainly feels a little less … exposed.

"That seems to have become awfully attached to you. Do you want me to ring that up so you can take it home?" she asks, pointing.

"Um, yes." He follows her to the cash register and pays the seventeen sovereigns and thirty pence that appears in the tiny digital display facing him. Trying not to think of the other six or so copies he already owns that only serve to gather dust somewhere in his storage, given to him the day the record went platinum, he smiles at her. "When does your band hit the stage, if it's not too forward of me to ask?"

His formality amuses her, he sees. She bags the LP and hands it to him. "Sometime between eight and ten? Schedules are a thing for other venues, apparently."

"That's hardly professional," he chastises, with a frown.

Leaning over the counter, she rests on her elbows as she peers up at him. "Needs must when the devil drives. So does that mean you're going to come?"

Again, her eagerness and candor surprises him. He tilts his head. "I might, though …."

"It feels weird to be invited by a total stranger? And you totally don't wanna look like a creep?" she finishes for him. At his nod, she grins and sticks her left hand out. "Ellana Lavellan."

Taking her hand in his, a shock coasts up his spine. A tad flustered, he says, pointing to her name-tag, "I know."

Then she looks down with chagrin, cheeks dimpling. "Oh, right. Ha."

"I am Solas," he says, with a nod. Then he realizes he's held her hand for quite a bit longer than necessary and lets go. Solas takes a step back and turns, thinking to retreat from this awkward and unintended situation.

"Nice to meet you, Solas. I'll be watching for you at the show." She gives him a wave from the counter. He returns it a tad stiffly.

The door chime jingles at him as he leaves, and he lets the breath he hadn't known he'd been holding out as he walks out onto the crowded sidewalk in Lowtown. As he makes his way home, he can't help but keep glancing back at the curious shop, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious girl who'd spoken to him like an old friend. Not that he had many.

Strange. His palm still tingled with warmth.

But perhaps she spoke to all her customers like that, inviting them to her band's shows and gigs. It's only prudent. After a bit, he convinces himself that her friendly and likable mien is just that, a facade she puts on to cater to an audience. Void knew he'd done similar, once upon a yesteryear.

Still ….

Later, he cannot resist listening to the album, and hears the missing something. And remembers that year.

The year it all went wrong.

* * *

 **A/N: Alright, so this is my tumblr fic. I thought I'd bring it over here bit by bit. It was meant to be a silly little fluff thing, but now it's running up on thirty chapters. I already took it over to ao3, so now I thought maybe it was time to bring it over here. Hope you enjoy! There probably won't be too many a/n's from here on out. Except on NEW new chapters. You know, like the day I post I have 'in the moment' thoughts I like to share. Sort of thing. Anyway, comments and critique are always appreciated. If you want to read all the way up to current, it's on Ao3 under 'bluekrishna' or on Tumblr under 'bluekrishna101' Cheers!**


	2. Chapter 2

_He came. He actually came._

The thought fills her with awe.

From behind the one-way mirror that separates bar from Varric's 'office,' Ellana spots him moving through the restless crowd of regulars toward the bar. The colored light from the cans above the small stage cast his sharp features in a severe light, emphasizing the brooding brow and full lips. His bald head turns this way and that as he searches for a free table in this dirty dive.

Seeing him again, in context this time, very nearly confirms her suspicion, no matter how dowdy and old-fashioned he might dress. The mob of restive youths in their uniform-like black jeans, band tees and tattoos parts to let this strange bird of a different feather altogether pass.

Here he stands, this 'Solas,' a very adult tourist in a pit of angry teens and twenty-somethings. She wonders if he feels out of place, in his pressed slacks and loose creme button-up. A long-fingered hand rises to push spectacles back up his nose as he settles back in a wooden chair in the back corner of the bar, furthest from the stage.

"Whatcha starin' at, Rosy?" calls the dwarf behind her from his massive desk. She leans back from the mirror to look at Varric.

Biting her lip to keep from spilling that there may be a bonafide heavy metal _god_ in his bar, she smiles and says, "Nothing. Pretty good crowd tonight."

The look he shoots back at her tells her she sucks at lying, but he's not going to push. He looks back down at the endless paperwork clearly hounding him and replies, "Of course. You're getting pretty popular."

"I wish. You know they're all probably here to see the Wardens."

The dwarf snorts. "When are you going to admit you got a pretty good thing going? Someday, you're going to call me from some big town, like Halamshiral or Denerim, and after the normal, boring, trite pleasantries, you're gonna say, 'Know what, Varric? The show's sold out. Eighty thousand seats. You were right. I guess we finally made it.'"

He looks a little sad at this.

The warmth pricking her heart makes her step over to him and give him a hug. "Aw, Varric. I couldn't and wouldn't go anywhere without you. You're coming with us if we go."

"And leave Kirkwall?" he asks, feigning horror.

"It's not like we can't come back whenever we want," she reasons, holding him a little tighter.

"Kid, you're choking me," he rasps, then laughs as she lets him go. "Maybe, just maybe. I could use a vacation after that whole Meredith/Orsino debacle."

"Still dealing with 'conflict of interest' bullshit?"

"It would have helped if they weren't both such divas. And if Anders hadn't been there to instigate." Varric affixes a sour eye on her and says, "Don't ever let success go to your head, Rosy."

"I'll start worrying about that if we ever get successful."

"Hey, boss," calls a voice at the door. She turns to see Bull there, in his low-slung jeans and leather vest covered in patches from every band he's ever crewed for. He grins, one eye glittering, and says, "Everything's set."

Ellana fairly leaps over to him and kisses him on the cheek. "Best roadie ever."

Bull grins even wider, pleased. "Best band ever."

"I bet you say that to all the bands," she teases.

Varric says, "Wardens here yet?"

The giant horned man's expression sours. "No."

The dwarf sighs. "Never here for soundcheck. Never here for load-in."

She waves at Varric and heads backstage to get ready. Her bandmates look up as she enters the green room.

Cassandra sets aside her guitar and stands. "Are we on?"

"Soon." Then the pre-show jitters hit and she bounces a little in place. Not to mention a certain … person was out there, she remembers suddenly. She bites her lip.

"What's the matter?" asks Blackwall from where he lounges on the stained, yellowish couch. His shirt loudly proclaims, _'Beard. Bass. Balls._ '

Again, she has to fight the urge to just blab it all out, but the look on Solas's face the other day stops her. Spooked. Haunted. No, if he chose to remain incognito, then she wouldn't out him. Especially not when she still harbors so much uncertainty.

"Doubt. Disquiet. Distress. We have to shine. It's important." The fourth member of the band slowly looks away from the knot on the wood wall toward her, drumsticks never ceasing their meditative twirl between his fingers.

Blackwall and Cassandra stare at the wan boy, then back at Ellana. She colors and says, "Pre-show shakes, that's all."

Cassandra's brow rises. "That is clearly 'not all.'"

"Yeah, you're even more twitchy than usual." Blackwall hums and strokes his prodigious 'stache.

"I just … I want it to be good. Tonight I want it to be really, really good." She looks down at her spiky heels then back up when Cassandra's hand drops onto her shoulder.

"You say that every time and you know what? _We_ make it good. Every time," the Nevarran states, leaving no room for doubt.

Her confidence skyrockets.

Ellana chuckles as she bounces a little in place, again. "Where's Sera?"

Blackwall laughs. "Where else? Front of the house, padding the band tab."

Ellana groans. "She knows that comes out of our cut, right?"

"I don't think she cares overmuch."

"Well, let's get out there before she's too sloshed to play."

As the band files out before her, Ellana reaches up to the chain around her neck. Warm from being lodged in her cleavage, she draws forth the triangular pendant with a reverent sigh. Her fingers trace the edges of the shining treasure within, drawing confidence from its presence. Plucking it free, she wraps it tight in one fist.

Following her bandmates out onto the stage, she slings her own instrument over one bare shoulder, checking the cable running from jack to amp. Blackwall and Cassandra give a nod once they're situated. She doesn't check on Cole. The spirit never fails to be ready, no matter how out of it he seems.

The mixing engineer, one of Bull's crew, gives her the thumb's up.

A belching blond elf saunters over and takes her own place with a saucy grin on her flushed face. The violin she then picks up rests easily under chin, bow already arcing over strings. "Finally come out to join the party, eh, Quizzy?"

"If there's more than fifty bucks on our tab already, it's coming out of your share, Sera."

That earns her a shrug of supreme indifference. "Fine. Wha'eva."

Ellana looks out over the sea of mohawks and leather and spots him, still sitting in the far back corner. Shielding her eyes, she smiles, giving a little wave.

He straightens and gives her a shy nod. Then a timid wave of his own.

She finds it terribly cute.

Far cuter than it has any right to be, considering. And makes her more nervous than if he'd been all imperious and aloof.

She shakes her head and laughs at herself, giving her own cue of readiness.

Then she leans toward the mic and takes a deep breath.


	3. Chapter 3

The beverage can only be called beer by the most general of definitions. He wonders if more than a few rag squeezings have found their way into it.

Surrounded by all these youths in their dyed and brutal glory, his skin starts to tingle and tighten. Smells of sweat and stale booze trigger memories of bygone days. His body wants to relax into an insolent sprawl. He wants to meet the eyes around him with that old predatory menace and arrogance.

But he can't. He won't let himself. Too easy to get lost in that past. It's why he never comes to places like this any more. That old life still has its claws in him, all the way down into his soul.

Just as he starts to wonder if this is all a big mistake and maybe he should just go, _she_ appears. A swaggering petite frame housed in tight leather pants and simple black tank-top. In the wake of the rest of her band, she steps onto the small stage as though she owns it. Owns all of them.

And in a way, she does. Every eye finds her. Oh, but she has _presence_.

Her lips, stained dark with makeup, widen as she looks over the crowd and spots him. A hand comes up to shield her eyes from the bright lights above the raised platform, then she waves.

A jolt runs up his spine as he nods acknowledgement. He returns the wave with one of his own. Her crooked grin is all for him and how that seems to just roll right through him in a warm rush.

The milling crowd gives a cheer, then hushes as she leans toward the mic. Her throaty contralto rolls out over the mass as she says, "Quite a turnout tonight. To everyone who keeps coming back weekend after weekend, I wanna say thanks! To all the new faces, welcome. And the dark ritual starts at midnight. Hope you brought your goat."

The crowd gives a boisterous laugh. A few raunchy and ribald remarks fly out of grinning mouths. Ellana tosses back her own, striking with surprising alacrity and wit as the pale boy on the drum kit behind her starts a slow and heavy beat.

A black-bearded, haggard human to her left plucks at the deepest strings of his bass, head rolling back and forth. The beat builds, faster and faster. With a screaming peal, the lead guitarist, another human, joins in, her fingers running hot and messy over neon orange strings. Ellana herself drops in to add rhythmic chords on her guitar, playing, of all things, upside down and backwards.

Something glows green in her strumming left hand, something like a burning emerald pinched tight between fore-knuckle and thumb. His breath leaves him as he recognizes it. _How had …?_

And then Ellana opens her mouth and the rest of it seems to just … drop away. Her voice rises to amazing heights and falls to primal growls, entrancing the mob with perfectly modulated pitch at just the right intervals. Solas finds himself swaying a little along with her as she sings with such passion and fury. The song throbs through him, filling him with an aching desire to jump into the midst of those flailing before their altar and dance in the violent whirlwind of the pit.

He can't even classify it. It sounds like nothing he's ever heard before. Yes, influences from many different genres, but all recombining into something … new. But with an old soul.

Stark. Savage.

It's beautiful.

Before he realizes it, their set is over. A dozen different melodies had swept by, each unique and wonderful and totally mesmerizing.

His trance breaks with a snap as the crowd screams their approval, howling and stamping their feet.

Solas blinks as he closes the mouth that had dropped open at some point during their performance.

Up on stage, Ellana smiles and accepts their accolades with earthy grace and yells into the mic, "That's it for us, friends. Up next, the Grey Wardens. They got your fix for the rest of the night. Til next time. We _are_ … Inquisition!"

She moves away from the mic, but then lunges back to say, in a hurried rush, "Oh, and there's merch at the table by the bar. And some swag."

Then the house lights brighten as the stage lights dim. Roadies file onto stage to start Inquisition's load-out and ready the stage for the next band.

Ellana leaps off the three-foot high stage and ambles through the audience, taking praise and photos with fans in stride. Then she gets near to his table and her steps hurry to almost a jog, her eyes glittering with warmth as they fasten onto him.

Standing without really meaning to, Solas swallows to try to find words of greeting.

She slides to a halt before him, brows dipping as though she'd reconsidered some other action. It occurs to him that she'd meant to hug him, but stopped herself.

The way his chest cavity swells at the idea gives him an inkling that he might not have been so put out by that. How strange. He usually eschewed physical contact of any sort, other than brief handshakes.

Her gaze slides away from him for a second as she says, "Well, what did you think?"

Flustered and at a loss for words, he could only blink.

"That bad, huh?" she says, tone flippant though her eyes flash a touch of disappointment.

He pushes the right words past an uncooperative tongue, "No. No. It was actually quite good."

Giving him a shy smile, she looks back up at him. "Good?"

Solas gestures to the seat next to him, inviting her to sit as he replies, "More than. I am … impressed."

She plops into the chair and leans toward him, grinning. "Worth the cover?"

"Many times over," he says. Then he notices her tightly closed fist leaking green light and holds his own out, palm flat. "May I?"

The back of her hand rests on his palm, and her fingers uncurl to display a pick. Solas leans closer to look at the little marvel, a magical construct that appears to be made of glass or crystal, but whose edge could flex and bend as easily as any plastic counterpart.

He does not need to touch it to know it for what it is. Wetting his lips, he says, "Where did you find this?"

A strange sort of guilt pulls her face to one side, eyes shifting from one side to another. "Would it be terrible to say it might be, uuuuh, stolen?"

His brows jump, and he cannot resist a huffing laugh. "Really?"

"You don't sound all that shocked," she notes, with a grin.

"Well, such a thing might be rare outside of a certain type of museum, but not unheard of. Usually in someone's private collection of memorabilia. And, forgive me, you do not seem to have the means to have acquired it through legitimate trade." He peers at her close to see if she takes offense.

She doesn't, just presses forward with eagerness. "So you know what this is?"

"Of course. It's a foci. A toy for foolishly rich musicians with a flair for magic. They were once very popular." Then he did touch it, just the pad of one finger brushing over its point. It sang at him a litany of past misdeeds.

"Okay, but I mean, do you know what specific foci this is? Or rather, _who_ it belonged to?" she coaxes, expectant as she stares at him.

Solas does not meet her gaze, but sees her expression in his periphery. Feels the burn of her regard on his cheek. He closes her fingers over the pick. "Does it matter? You own it now. And, it seems, you are putting it to good use. Which is arguably better than letting it rot on some millionaire's shelf."

Deflating, she leans back and pulls a curious pendant free of her decolletage. With a snap, the foci is encased within. The necklace falls back out of sight, gleam dimming to nothing.

Solas shakes his head as he realizes he's been staring at her cleavage. She smiles in understanding as he shoots her an abashed glance. A long awkward moment passes as he tries to think of something to say. Finally he says, "So, you are left-handed."

What a great conversationalist he's turning out to be. He stifles the wince with effort.

"Yep. Since forever." She raises that hand to signal the barman. Belatedly, he realizes he should have offered to get her a drink.

He chastises himself again for being an idiot. "Quite interesting to see. Playing upside down and backward. Why not get a left-handed guitar?"

"Too poor, for starters. Used to it, for seconds. It's the way I learned. I'm comfortable with it and the music doesn't suffer for it, so why change?"

"Good point." Her drink arrives and he pulls out his wallet. "Please, allow me."

Ellana laughs and, at the questioning look the waitress throws her, waves in acquiescence.

Debt settled, he turns back to her. "I'm sorry. It's been some time since I've been out in company. I'm afraid I'm out of … practice."

"Implying you used to get plenty," she teases. "Of practice, I mean."

He chuckles and shrugs. "I was young once."

"Y'know who says shite like that?" says a loud voice just to his right. He looks up to see the blond violinist swaying on her feet at the edge of their table. She pours herself onto one of the empty chairs as she continues, "Ooold people. Like stupid old. Are you stupid old, mister elfy-elf face? Iz he stupid old, El?" This last, she addressed to Ellana, whose face darkened with annoyance.

She growls a warning, "Sera."

"No, seriously. Izzat why he shaves? So's we can't see the grey?" Sera peers at him, face inches away. Solas holds fast to his position, no matter that he wants to lean away from her alcohol-doused breath.

Ellana's hand darts across the table and flicks the blond right on the end of the nose. Sera recoils as her hands come up to clap over it, and she yells, "Hey!"

Solas throws a grateful glance over to Ellana.

"Rosy, got your pay," calls a new voice. Solas turns his head to see a beardless dwarf sauntering their way. The short fellow stops and smiles a friendly greeting. "Oh? Who's this?"

With a glance toward him, she says, "A … friend."

"A 'significant pause' friend, hmm?" says the dwarf. "Well, any 'significant pause' friend of yours is a 'significant pause' friend of mine. Varric Tethras is the name. This is my bar."

"'E means this's his town," says the drunken blond, patting the last empty chair, into which Varric sank with a sigh.

"Sh, sh, Sera. Don't say that so loud," he teases, before turning a disarming grin across the way. "It's the best worst-kept secret in the Marches."

"Solas," the elf greets, shaking the hand extended his way. Then he chuckles. "Is this where my tax dollars end up?"

He makes a little show of looking around at the decrepitude.

"What? Think I'm mishandling the funds? I'm a lot of things, but embezzler I am not. No, my mayoral post is the, um, unofficial sort." Varric pats Ellana's hand in a paternal way. "Little Rosy here and her troupe are my latest project."

"Are you their agent?" he asks, curious.

"Ugh, old people talk. Boooring," moans Sera, standing with a belch. "I'ma go find a fan with big tits."

"You do that, Sera," snaps Ellana, crossing her arms. "I'll give your share to Blackwall."

Varric answers his question with a question, "Depends. You in the biz?"

"Ha, ha. Not as such. I am merely curious."

"Really?" The dwarf shoots Ellana an unreadable look. Or rather, unreadable to him, for she seems to pick up on its meaning well enough. She blushes as Varric continues, "So how did you two crazy kids meet then?"

Kids? Solas thinks with amusement. He estimates himself to be around this dwarf's age, if not a tad older. But then again, elves tend to weather the ravages of time a little better than most races. "She works in a record shop near my home. I happened to go by there this last Thursday."

"Huh," says the dwarf, still looking at Ellana. She fidgets in her seat.

Solas coughs and says, "I'm sorry. Am I missing something?"

"Oh, it's not you, Chuckles. Old Rosy here doesn't usually bring people around for introductions unless she's prospecting." Varric takes in his shock with a crooked grin. "Tell me. Are you a singer? A baritone, perchance?"

"What?" Solas looks from him to her and sees the guilt there, plain as day. She knows. _She knows._

Do they all know?

 _Get up. Leave._

"I-I apologize. It seems I have elsewhere to be," he stammers, standing abruptly. His chair squeaks along the floor.

"Whoa, hey, Chuckles. What did I say?" asks Varric, genuine worry in his face.

"Nothing. Thank you for the evening's entertainment. Good night." Solas swallows and spins on one heel, reaching for the door.

The outside air is bracing and helps greatly to restore his equilibrium as he ducks through and out. Just as he takes the first step toward his apartment, a hand grabs his elbow. He swings around to confront … Ellana.

She stares at him with such remorse that the angry shout dies in his throat. She says, "I'm so sorry. And-and they don't know. I won't tell them."

The muscles in his jaw twitch. "Good." Then he turns once more.

"Wait. Please," she whispers.

Against his better judgement, he stops and looks at her. "You lured me here under false pretenses."

"I know. That's the part I'm sorry about." Her hands rub her arms. Then her eyes come up to gaze into his, steadfast. "But I'm not sorry you came. To see the show. Have a good time. Or that you smiled and laughed and talked with me and my friends, like people do."

"What makes you think I need or want anything like that?" His lip curls, though her declaration causes a hollow thump in his breast.

"I don't know. A feeling, I guess," she says, looking down and away again. Then her shoulders hunch. "You know what? Maybe this _was_ a bad idea. Sorry. Goodbye, Solas."

When she turns to head back inside, he fights the urge to catch her shoulder. His fist clenches at his side as he stares at the closed door for a long, long time.

With a sigh, Solas turns and heads up the streets of Lowtown. Alone, again.

As it should be.


	4. Chapter 4

"Way to screw the proverbial pooch, Varric," she says, plopping back into her vacated chair. Her weary tone takes most of the sting out of it though.

"What? Even I could tell he wasn't going to be interested." Varric tips back his pint and takes a deep draw. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"This is why I'm the closer and you're the money."

"It's not my fault you didn't tell him before he ever came here. They usually have some clue." Varric hums and pats her hand again. "I really am, though."

"I know. I screwed up, too. Pushed too fast. Scared him off. Which is really sad," she mutters, leaning back to rub her eyes, careful of her mascara. "He woulda been perfect."

"Who woulda been perfect?" says Blackwall, turning a chair backwards to straddle it.

"This guy she was reeling in," replies Varric, pushing over two stacks of money. "You and Buttercup."

With a grim nod, Blackwall pockets their cuts. Then he jerks a thumb toward the stage. "So, who's the ringers?"

They all turn to look. Varric heaves a great sigh. "Last minute replacements. The Wardens didn't bother to show. Bugged out, from what I hear."

"What? Why?"

"Flakes flake. That's how it goes."

"We could have done another set, Varric," admonishes Ellana, with a frown.

"No. You gotta build up a hunger in these kids for your sound. You don't want them to get tired of it. So you just give them a taste, at first."

"Sounds like you're slinging dope," says Blackwall, with a judicious sniff.

Varric laughs. "Principle is the same. Only this is a less destructive addiction we're trying to build."

"Tell that to the Darkspawn, or the damn El'Vhen." Blackwall snorts.

Ellana just keeps herself from touching the vallaslin over her one eye. They note her sudden stillness though.

Blackwall reaches out to touch her shoulder. "Sorry, El."

"It's fine. You can't choose your parents, right?" If her laughter is a little brittle, they don't comment.

"Right," says Varric. "If you could, I'd have picked a pair with less … beardy-ness."

"What's wrong with beards?" asks Blackwall, giving his a stroke.

"My mistake. Beards are great. I should have said 'dwarfy-ness.' Mine suffered from extreme traditionalism. Sometimes, I think dad still believes he's going to fall up into the sky. It's embarrassing." Varric sighs. "But then again, that's what parents are for. To be embarrassing. Forever."

"Where's Cass?" asks Ellana.

"Babysitting Cole, as per usual." Blackwall shook his head. "That kid …. If he weren't such a great drummer …."

"Aw, Cole's great. He gives us that proper mystical vibe." She wiggles her fingers over the table.

"He's not human."

"Neither am I," she reminds him.

Blackwall snorts. "You know what I mean. It could be trouble if the government ever figured him out."

"The Magical Possession Prohibition Act doesn't apply to him. He's not possessing anyone." She put her hand over the grumbling human's forearm. "Look, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it. 'Kay?"

He shrugs. "You're the boss. I'm going to go see a man about a horse."

Then he gets up and leaves Varric and Ellana looking after him. The dwarf laughs and says, "Where do you _find_ all these characters, Ellana? Blackwall, who should be off somewhere wrangling cattle or leaning on wooden posts looking all rustic. Cassandra, a sharp woman with an even sharper tongue, babying a spirit. Sera. _Cole!"_

"I know right? They're my band, though. I love'em. I'd kill for them, if they asked."

"Remind me never to get on any of their bad sides. Anyway, here's you, Cass and Cole," Varric says as he shoves three piles of wrinkly bills at her.

She picks them up and pauses. "Huh, Cass's seems a little light."

"She owes me," said Varric, lemon-sour. "She knows for what."

Well, if Cassandra has a problem with it, _she_ can take it up with Varric. Ellana shrugs and stands. "I'm gonna go talk to these fuggin' new guys."

"Just can't help making friends, can you."

"Nope. It's how I do."

"Don't ever change, Rosy."


	5. Chapter 5

The piano stares back at him with disapproval.

He sighs as he sips from the wineglass dangling from one hand. It's early for a libation, but he needs it. Checking his watch, Solas sees that an hour has elapsed and still his legs refuse to stand and take him away from this folly plaguing him.

Even sleep escaped him last night as the slow spark of inspiration took hold and blew into a conflagration.

So now he sits, willing it to pass but failing. He's so very good at failing, after all.

Miserable, he sighs and sets fingers to keys. A simple run warms up his hands, then he truly begins. As melody takes shape under his fingers, he can't help but picture … _her_. That strange and compelling muse with the flame-colored hair and crooked grin.

Gyrating hips and blinding, youthful power.

His right hand retrieves the pen from behind his ear at regular intervals to make notations on the sheet music before his eyes. Key changes, accidentals and dynamics fall into place where it feels most natural.

Time flies by, and a knock on his door shatters his concentration just as the last phrase comes together.

Irritated, Solas straightens, popping his back, all the while staring at the song he just created. The final measure pokes at him and he writes as he mutters, "Tremolo e diminuendo. Fine."

The knock comes again and he shouts, "Yes, yes! I'll be right there."

Shuffling the papers into order, he stands and strides toward the door. Yanking it open, he says, "Yes? Ah, Miss Cordelia. Come in."

The waifish human adolescent drifts in at his impatient gesture. Her eyes are huge in terror behind her porcelain half-mask. She clutches her cello case in front of her like a shield, making him regret his sharp tone.

Solas softens his gaze as he waves her to her customary seat, the seat all his students occupy when here. "On time today, I see. Did you practice this week as I requested?"

"Yes, Messere," she whispers, timid as a mouse.

He frowns. The term grates on his nerves more than usual. "I thought we agreed that you would call me Solas. I do not require an honorific."

"Mama says everyone is 'Messere' or 'Madame,' even those that don't deserve it, like the poor and even elves."

Keeping his face blank takes supreme effort, but he manages. It's not this girl's fault she was born into privilege, or that her parents are fatuous, bourgeois pigs. "Noblesse oblige aside, respect isn't in a word. It's in the act. You show me respect by doing as I instruct, by being a good student. I show you respect by giving you the best instruction I can. Is this not true?"

She nods, though doubt dances in her eyes. Her precious Mama couldn't be wrong, after all.

"Let us begin the lesson. Tune your instrument and show me." As he sits through the tortured squealing of bow on string, manipulated by untalented hands, he takes in her worrying her lip to near bloody, her shifting gaze sliding all over the room. He himself tries so very hard to remain interested and engaged.

His foot, however, makes no such promises and bounces in agitation. Counter to the beat, it throws the student off and she halts with a grimace. "I'm sorry, Mess-"

"Tell me, Cordelia. Do you even like the cello?" he interrupts, keeping his voice even and mild.

Her face, what he could see of it, wrinkles in confusion. It clearly states, What does liking have to do with anything? "I … like it well enough, I guess?"

"Or rather, if you had the choice of anything you could be doing right now, would it be learning the cello?" He sets elbows onto knees and leans forward, rubbing his palms together lightly. "Is there something you're passionate about? What brings you joy, Cordelia?"

She flushes and looks away, demurely. "I … I like to dance, Messere."

"Oh? Ballet?"

"N-no." The bow in her hands gives a little wiggle in the air as she looks up at him with trepidation. He gives her an encouraging nod. A tiny measure of confidence flickers in her countenance. "Hip hop and jazz."

Surprised, but delightedly so, he smiles.

Cordelia's flush pales as her gaze goes distant. She bites her lip. "Oh, but mama says proper ladies don't dance like that. They sew, or paint, or play. I'm to become accomplished, she says."

Solas shakes his head. "So many things in the world bring us sorrow. So few, joy. Is it so wrong to desire a measure of happiness? I would say not. I would also say that … while accomplishment is a worthy goal, it's ever more gratifying to become accomplished in something you love doing."

He reaches out and takes the bow from her hand, motioning that she should put her cello back in its case. Then he hands her the bow so she can lay it alongside the instrument.

Solas says, "The cello is a passionate instrument. You can learn it, but if you don't love it, it will never be more than a source of bitter frustration. The music will never fly from your fingers as you will always be aware it should. And you may end up hating it, or your parents, or even yourself someday, and what a pity that would be. Because you are a person, and every person is worthy of love and respect."

The fire of rebellion grows in her gaze, and he finds that very gratifying. For people shouldn't be bent or hammered into shapes that poorly fit.

Brave little Cordelia says, haltingly, "What if I already hate my parents?"

He can't help but laugh. "I would say that's perfectly normal. At your age, the collar starts to chafe. They hold the reins to every decision about your life and your goals. You may have already started to wonder what it might feel like to take those reins in your own hand. Doing so is what adulthood is all about. As is living with the consequences."

Her shoulders pull back as her spine straightens. The thoughtful look in her eye tells him his suggestion took root. Latching the clasps on her case, she stands and heads for his door. Turning, she gives him a shy smile. "I … might not be back."

"If that makes you happy, then I am well pleased. Adieu, Cordelia." When the door shuts behind her, he goes to the window and watches his student slide into the waiting car. A long black number that bespoke highly of the wealth of her parents. With a sigh for the loss of their patronage, Solas nevertheless feels lighter than he has for a long time.

Then he wonders how many times this same scenario will play out with his other students. How many angry phone calls is he likely to get? Solas laughs at himself.

 _I am also so very good at sabotaging myself._

With shaking head, Solas wanders back over to his piano and rifles through the sheet music still waiting patiently there for one last perusal for flaws. He hums the tune as he sips wine through smiling lips. _Yes, it's quite good._

Raw and honest in a way he hasn't felt in himself in a long, long time.

 _"What brings you joy?"_ His earlier words come back to haunt him as he realizes he's looking at it.

He reaches into a pocket and fishes out his cell phone. Rarely used, it blinks at him beseechingly, begging to be put to purpose.

Pecking out four letters to the only number in its directory, he sends the text, _"Busy?"_

Swift comes the reply, _"No. Not really."_

Solas then presses the little handset icon and puts the device to his ear. It rings an … interesting four times before it's picked up. He pictures shock on that other's face as he hears a timid, "Hello?"

"Hello indeed," he replies, with a smirk.

A long pause at the other end presaged a hushed, "You still sound the same."

"Is that such a surprise?"

"Considering our … discussions have never ventured out of the realm of the weekly email in years, yes." There is an accusation in the man's tone. A pang flares through Solas's heart for just a second, the briefest whisper of shame as the man continues, "I've spent the last few frenzied seconds trying to determine just what kind of emergency could provoke an actual verbal interaction."

"Not an emergency."

"Now I really am worried."

Solas laughs.

"And a laugh. I am _aghast!_ "

"Listen, let us skip all that and go have lunch today. I have something that may … interest you."

"All this sudden, unprecedented friendliness has my heart all a-flutter, Solas. Give a girl a minute to process." Solas hears the man lean away and shout at someone to clear his schedule, probably that Harding girl, his longtime assistant. Then, loud and demanding in his ear, "Where?"

"Prendere en Giro?"

"Excellent. Hmm. 11:30-ish? No being fashionably late. For either of us."

"That suits. See you then, Dorian."


End file.
